When The City Sleeps
by VodkandCoke
Summary: AU In a city where you have to kill to live and live to kill, two individuals will meet along with a young boy. Soon the three will discover that not everything is always as it seems. KakuHida. Rating will go up.


_Prologue _

It is a dark, rainy, night. Typical weather found in a city filled with sinners and corruption. The streets are extended gutters which lead into allies where unspeakable horrors emerge. And yet, amidst this cry for help in the unholy hell that has befallen earth, there is no hope. Any form of salvation died years ago under the political machine that has soiled the idealism that shapes what is known as 'democracy'.

He knows this. The man who continues to walk down the dirty sidewalk, head lowered and shoulders hunched in a stance that means he only wants to get along with his life and avoid everything else. There is a suitcase in his hand. A bright, silver suitcase that stands out against his dark brown overcoat and fedora that hides half his dark face in shadows.

The suitcase contains money. Tainted money. Green bills pact tightly together, each individual dollar containing a story. A tale of murder, drugs, sex, _evil_. But it doesn't matter because in the end the only thing that ever matters in the ever changing world where a politician is in control for a day and very well dead the next is the fact that money remains eternally valuable.

At least, that is what he tells himself everyday when he gets up in the morning. Surrounded by a crummy apartment with its peeling wallpaper and roach infested floors. But who cares? It's cheap and it hides in a neighborhood where no one cares who you are or what you do as long as you mind your own damn business.

It's perfect for his lifestyle.

And his lifestyle is one that needs to be hidden, tucked away from the prying eyes of those few hopeful people who think they can rid of the world of its infection. Hopeful fools, buried under a crushing mass of false hope. That's all they are, that and another pay check.

For what better way is there to make money in a corrupt society where sex and murder foam up around the waist of its obviously uncaring citizens? A life for a life, or for a dollar as the man so coldly puts it. And he keeps this train of thought in mind. It rids him of the occasionally nagging guilt that sometimes finds its way past his solid barriers.

And it is this lack of conscience that helps him take each step forward on the cracked sidewalk as he makes his way towards his destination. For him this is work. Forget the average, boring nine to five. His line of work begins long after the ignorant have fallen asleep, hidden safely in their four walls as the rats and thugs of the city come out at night to play in the urban world they have ruled for decades.

So lost in his thoughts the man almost misses his stop in front of a dingy, rundown apartment complex. He sighs and pets the gun tucked away safely in the inside pocket of his coat. He walks up the three slippery concrete steps that lead on to the peeling, graffiti-covered door before testing out the knob. It's unlocked; perfect. Now he doesn't have to waste time breaking it open.

He takes a quick look around for good measure before walking in. The rickety stairs leading to the upstairs hallway are creaky and worn out from use but he quickly climbs them, hardly making a sound, his mere presence barely noticeable and almost ninja-like in nature.

His victims location is the seemingly grease stained door at the far end: apartment 13. The man snorts as he reads the number, now standing directly in front of it. The dreaded number thirteen. A number synonymous with either good fortune in some cultures, or bad luck in others. In this case: bad luck. The man pulls out the gun and is about to kick open the door when he pauses. Behind the thinly made walls he can hear noises.

He doesn't even have to strain his ears before the sounds become audible. Moaning and sobbing, but behind that, slightly less loud, come deep throated grunts and the slapping of flesh. The hired assassin grimaces and contemplates waiting until the disgusting act is over, but quickly shakes his head. There's a big bounty on the victims head, and money always comes above all else, even his own discomfort.

All it takes is one agile kick and the door swings straight off its hinges, crashing against the other side of the room, startling its inhabitants. The scene before him causes the anonymous assassin to grimace once again, only this time with more disgust than before.

There is a man. Short, by the looks of it with scraggly violent red hair. His skin is flawless, almost puppet-like in appearance. But his appearance is not what makes the assassin shudder internally. Instead, the man is on his elbows above a young boy – no older than twelve perhaps.

"I take it you've come here to kill me." he red-head drawls, his voice cold and uncaring.

The coated figure doesn't even bother to reply before he lifts his gun and hits the short man between his eyes. The cold orbs remain wide as the life slowly fades from his face, and just as quickly as he was alive, he is dead and his body collapses on top of the boy, limp and unmoving.

The assassin contemplates killing the boy as well, even though he hadn't made a sound or any form of movement the entire time. Had he, he would most surely be dead. There is several minutes of silence before the boy -with difficulty- shoves the body off and winces as it falls on to the flow with a loud 'thud.'

Now that the boy is no longer half covered by the dead mans corpse, the cloaked figure can take in his features now. A roundish face, long silver hair, striking silver eyes, and a pair of round glasses held together by scotch tape. His body is pale and thin, strikingly similar to the corpse on the floor. The only noticeable difference is the multitude of scars that mar his body.

The young boy stares down at the body for a long while, his face pensive before he turns his gaze in the direction of the assassin.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asks quietly, but not – oddly enough – containing any form of fear.

The assassin raises his eyebrow and replies, his voice deep, "Are you going to tell anyone what happened?"

The silver-haired youth shakes his head in response. "I will not."

"Then no."

He turns to leave, leaving the boy to deal with the aftermath of his job. Without a word he is gone, coat bellowing behind by some unfelt, unseen wind.

Meanwhile, the boy quickly puts his clothes on, having picked them up from the filthy floor the moment the man left. He rushes to the door and pauses, looking back into the small room filled with puppets and mismatched, worn furniture. Only lack of anywhere else to go has kept the boy living in that box with a man who used him only for his own twisted pleasures. And now that the same sick individual is gone, he has no where to go.

The silver-haired youth nods to himself before turning and darting after the mysterious man, never once looking back into the room that held his old life. It takes the boy a while to find the cloaked figure out in the dark, dirty back alleys of the city, but he knows them well and it isn't long before he finds his target.

"W-wait!" he calls out, catching his breathe as he runs up to the man, now trailing next to his long strides, having to practically jog to keep up.

"Let me come with you!"

"No. Go away before I kill you."

"Please, I won't get in the way. I promise! I can take care of myself and cook and clean!" the boy says this all very quickly, trying to convince the man to let him stay with him.

"No."

The youth purses his lips and averts his eyes, pulling out his last argument. "I-I can...pl-pleasure you if you want." he stutters slightly.

At this the man halts abruptly and glances down at the boy who refuses to look at his gaze. "Do I look like a pedophile to you?" He growls.

The youth shakes his head, refusing to look at the older man, his gaze fixed on the sidewalk. Several seconds of tense silence pass before the cloaked figure sighs and begins to walk again, slower this time.

"So what's your name kid?"

"Kabuto."

"Do you know anything about the type of people Sasori-san used to hang out with?"

In response the boy nods his head, but pauses, "If I tell you, will you let me stay with you?" Kabuto tries to bargain.

The man snorts. "How about, you tell me and I don't kill you."

Kabuto smiles wryly, "Go ahead. I have nothing or anyone to live for."

The cloaked figure sighs, annoyed but needing the information the boy most likely possesses, or was coyly lying about. Either way it is something he desperately needs – not that he would let on to this of course, lest the youth have something to hold over him.

"Fine." he growls angrily, his pace gaining speed again, "You can stay. But --" he puts much emphasize on the 'but', "You have to stay out of my way, and if you think for a second of snitching me out," the man pulls out his gun and holds it threateningly against the boys head, "I'll kill you."

Kabuto gulps, but other than that makes no movement to press away from the gun or run, "Okay."

"Good." the assassin places the pistol back into his coat pocket and continues the walk back to his crummy apartment.

"So what's your name?"

"...Kakuzu."


End file.
